The Sworn

by Gail Z. Martin

  In reply, Jair trod on Mihei’s toes. “Ouch!”

  “Awake now?”

  “Yes, thanks. You can save the other foot for later.”

  As the candlemarks wore on, Jair paced the warded circle. For a time, he drummed on the empty water bucket with the pestle, playing a rhythm that kept both of them awake. When Mihei began to waver, Jair brought him more of the muttar gum and fanned his face. But as the stars overhead reached their zenith, Mihei was tiring. The golden glow of the warding dimmed, and the dimonns, sensing victory, massed against the shielding.

  Alarmed, Jair started to his feet, one hand on his stelian and one hand touching his amulet in a gesture of protection. Beyond the warded circle, the phosphorescent glow had gone dark. Mihei’s eyes were bleary and his lips were dry and cracked as he struggled to reinforce the magical barrier. And although Jair had treated his own wounds, the gashes where the dimonns had cut him burned. He was sweating, although the night was cool, and his heart was racing from more than mortal fear. Emil lay still and pale on the grass. Whatever poison was rapidly coursing through Jair’s blood, Emil had received a larger dose.

  I’m going to die, Talwyn, Jair thought, fingering the metal charm. Forgive me.

  The metal tingled under his touch and Talwyn’s image formed clear in his mind for the first time since the dimonn attack had begun. Hang on. Rescue… The voice faded, but hope was enough to shake off Jair’s fatigue. He ran to Mihei and shook him by the shoulders, rousing him as the glow of the warded dome dimmed nearly to darkness. The shrieks of the dimonns were louder now, and just beyond the thin golden glow, Jair could hear the snap of teeth.

  “They’re coming for us,” Jair whispered, afraid that the dimonns might hear. “Try, Mihei. Try to hold the barrier until help comes.”

  Mihei nodded. His eyes widened, and he slammed them shut, squeezing them tightly as his head jerked back and forth. Alarmed, Jair reached toward him.

  “No. Visions. I see… our deaths. All dead.”

  Acting on instinct, Jair gripped Mihei’s shoulder with his right hand and tightened the fingers of his left hand around the amulets that hung at his throat. He willed his breathing to slow, picturing a river of golden light flowing between his amulets and Mihei, warm and powerful energy to reinforce the mage’s failing magic. Mihei drew a long, shuddering breath and seemed to relax.

  In the distance, Jair heard hoofbeats.

  A crack like thunder split the night, and a wall of flame burst into light at the edges of Mihei’s wardings. A streak of light burned through the darkness, and the dimonns scattered, howling in anger as strong magic crackled through the cool night air. Mihei collapsed to his knees, and the last glow of his warding faded.

  The fire flared, and in its light, Jair could see five shapes approaching. By their outlines, all had swords at hand. As they stepped closer, Jair could see that the five were Sworn, and leading the group was Talwyn, clad in leather armor, dressed for battle. As Talwyn and the others reached the stone circle, the ring of flames disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving only blackened grass behind.

  “Open the circle,” Talwyn said, and Jair rushed to move stones out of the way to welcome the others into the warded space.

  “How did you know?” Jair asked, as Talwyn knelt beside Emil.

  “When I touched your dream, I sensed evil near you. Something was strong enough to keep me from reaching your dreams again to warn you. Janeth knew the route Emil and Mihei were going to take. We’d had to backtrack from where they left us because flooding had taken out the bridge on the river, so we weren’t as far away as Emil and Mihei would have expected. Even so, we had to ride hard to get here in time.”

  Jair glanced at their sweat-soaked horses, then looked back to Emil. “The dimonns tricked him. They showed us a child beyond the wardings. She looked like Emil’s daughter.”

  Talwyn nodded. “That’s hard to resist, even if you know better.” Jair looked away, not at all certain he could have resisted the bait had it been Kenver’s image the dimonns had projected.

  “Can you heal them?”

  Talwyn checked over both Emil and Mihei carefully before she nodded. “Yes, but not here. I’d like to be somewhere less exposed.” She looked up at Jair and cast a worried glance at his wounds. “I’ll need to look at that arm, as well.”

  “Gladly,” Jair replied. The warmth of the wound had grown to a low fever, and he didn’t want to imagine how Emil was feeling.

  At Talwyn’s command, the Sworn warriors lifted Emil and Mihei and carried them to their horses, draping each man over his saddle and securing them in place. Jair waved off assistance and swung up to his saddle, favoring his damaged arm but able to ride. They rode in silence, on high alert, for a candlemark until they came to an inn.

  “We stop here,” Talwyn said, and the others slowed beside her.

  “Is it safe?” Jair asked warily.

  Talwyn smiled and raised a hand. On the upper doorpost, a rune suddenly began to glow, fading again into invisibility. “One of our people marked this place. It’s safe.”

  The inn was quiet, empty of the usual travelers. Jair had no doubt that plague had dampened business, and if the locals suspected that the road ahead held horrors, then it was no surprise that few ventured this way in the dark. The innkeeper’s eyes widened as he saw the company of Sworn enter, but he gestured them upstairs at the sight of the injured men, and he promised to send up food and ale. Jair took a deep breath to steady himself as he climbed the stairs. His fever had worsened during the ride, and his head had grown light. He stumbled near the top, and one of the warriors caught him by the shoulder. Talwyn glanced sharply toward him, but Jair shook his head.

  “Emil’s worse, and Mihei’s completely spent. I’ll be all right.” As he spoke, his voice seemed distant, and the upstairs corridor of the inn tilted as he fell, and blackness took him.

  Chapter Two

  Don’t let go of the life threads. I’ve nearly got him.” King’s Healer Esme shifted her position at the bottom of the birthing bed, while Queen’s Healer Cerise took her place beside Queen Kiara, holding one hand on the queen’s forehead to ease her pain. Martris Drayke, the Summoner King of Margolan, sat on a high stool beside the bed, focusing all of his spirit magic to anchor Kiara’s life force and to strengthen the wildly fluctuating blue thread that was the life of his son.

  Blood drenched the sheets. Kiara was pale from the loss of it, alternating between fever and chills. Nearly everything that could go wrong with a birth had gone wrong, and as candlemarks of labor slowly passed, the pain had worn through Kiara’s warrior resolve until her cries echoed from the stone walls.

  Sister Fallon had come to attend the birth, aiding the healers and sustaining Tris’s magic through the long night. Rune-seer Beyral waited in the shadows to read the portents for the new prince. Tris knew the other reason the mages had come. Birth, like death, was a time when the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead was at its thinnest. Drawn by the light, ghosts were the least dangerous of the beings that clustered at the threshold. And though the child had been ensouled since the time of quickening, neither Tris nor the mages were taking any chances. Now, Tris was glad for the mages’ presence, and they helped to maintain a warding around the room. It was taking all of his power to keep two fragile life threads glowing brightly. Behind the bed, Tris could see the shimmering outline of a ghost. Viata, Kiara’s mother, had also come to watch over the birth.

  “Hang on,” Tris murmured as Kiara groaned with another contraction. Tris had already bound her life force to his own, magic made easier by the ritual wedding bond they’d made. But the baby’s thread was slippery, evasive. Whether or not the boy would become his mage heir remained to be seen: Magic was almost never unlocked so early. Most mages became aware of their abilities as they approached puberty. And yet, as Tris struggled to keep a grip on the pulsing blue life thread, there was something very different about this energy. To his mage sight, it wa
s almost translucent, instead of burning with a clear blue light. And it was damn difficult to anchor.

  Cerise pushed a wad of leaves between Kiara’s lips and murmured a litany against pain as Kiara cried out with the strength of another contraction. To ease her labor, every knot in the room had been loosened and every closed drawer opened. Around the room candles burned to light the child’s way. Still, nothing helped. Tris winced, sharing her pain through the bond. Kiara’s strength, while formidable, was fading quickly. And despite precautions—including placing his sword Nexus beneath her bed to cut the pain—nothing had eased this birth.

  “He’s crowning. One more strong push should do it. Please, Kiara, push him out to me,” Esme urged. Tris could hear exhaustion and determination in Esme’s voice.

  With a final push and Kiara’s anguished cry, the baby eased into Esme’s waiting hands. Kiara fell back, utterly spent. Tris reinforced Esme’s healing magic to ease Kiara’s pain, but his attention was riveted on the child. The baby’s skin was tinged blue and he did not cry out. Gently, Esme loosened the cord from around him as Tris laid a hand on the small form still slick with blood. He sent a desperate surge of magic to strengthen the baby’s life force. The baby jerked in Esme’s arms and began to cry, drawing a ragged breath. Tris reinforced his hold on the babe’s life thread as Esme took a knife with an obsidian blade and cut the cord, knotting off both ends securely.

  “Sweet Chenne, look!”

  Esme pointed beneath the bed. Nexus’s runes had burst into flame. Tris watched as the runes realigned themselves, magically shifting to form a new message. He read the runes apprehensively. “Light sustains,” he murmured, and looked to Beyral and Fallon, whose expressions revealed them to be as baffled as he was.

  “What is his name?” Esme’s question drew Tris back to the moment, to the child Esme gently placed in his arms. Thin strands of white-blond hair covered the top of the baby’s head in a fine fuzz. The child stretched and opened his eyes. They were a brilliant green.

  “Cwynn. His name is Cwynn.” Tris could only hope that the spirit of the ancient warrior whose tales of magic and bravery were legend would smile on this fragile infant who shared his name. Carefully, Esme gathered up the bloody remains of the birth and brought them in a wooden bowl for Beyral to read the omens.

  Tris moved to show the baby to Kiara, gently setting him against her chest so that Cwynn could nurse. Although Kiara was exhausted, Tris could see the pride and affection in her eyes as she watched the baby suckle. “He’s beautiful,” Tris said, bending down to kiss Kiara’s forehead. “Like his mother.”

  “Will he be all right?” Tris met Kiara’s eyes, and he could guess what she was really asking. For months, they had worried over the possible effects that the wormroot on the assassin’s blade might have had on the baby.

  “His thread is strong,” Tris replied. “That’s a good beginning.” But even now, as he stretched out his mage sense toward the baby Kiara cradled in her arms, the strange translucency made that thread shift in his sight.

  Beyral’s chanting drew his attention. The bone and ivory runes were smeared with birth blood, a powerful and ancient magic. Beyral lifted the runes in her hands, and then let them fall. Her eyes grew wide. Every rune and bone had landed with the blank side up.

  “What do you read?” Tris asked, hesitant to hear the answer.

  Beyral stared at the runes in surprise. “The afterbirth portends great power. But the runes are silent. There is no omen, no reading at all. I’ve never seen this.”

  Tris looked to Esme. “What of the wormroot? Did it affect him?”

  The healer shrugged. “There’s something different about the child. I can feel it in my magic, but I don’t know what it is. Everything appears as it should be. We won’t know about other effects, or whether or not he inherited your power, for quite a while.” She lowered her voice and turned so that her back was to Kiara. “He might be fine. But if not… if there is real damage… he may not be able to take the throne.”

  Tris felt a wave of cold fear sweep through him, and he struggled to keep his composure. “I won’t give up on him without a fight. You know that.”

  Esme nodded, and laid a hand on his arm. “Protect him. I don’t know what the difference means, but whatever it is, he’ll need you. Both of you.”

  Tris swallowed. “The birth was so difficult. Could Kiara bear another child?”

  Esme met his eyes. “She needs to heal. But it may be wise, given the circumstances.”

  An heir and a spare, Tris thought. He glanced back to where Kiara lay with Cwynn in her arms, and the tangle of emotions he felt made him want to laugh and cry all at once. Tris moved back to stand beside the bed and Kiara looked up at him.

  “He eats like a warrior. That’s a good thing.”

  Tris reached out to touch her cheek. “Goddess! I never realized what a battle it is to bring a child to the world. Both of you need to rest.” One of the midwives took Cwynn from Kiara’s arms to sponge him off in a bath of warm herbed wine. She swaddled him and returned him to Kiara, who let him rest against her skin as he slept.

  “You need to rest, too.”

  Kiara reached out to take his hand in hers. “I will. Thank you for holding on.” She looked down at the sleeping infant. “He’s a fighter, Tris. I know it. He wouldn’t have made it through everything if he weren’t.”

  Tris squeezed her hand tightly. “I know. And whatever comes, we’ll fight for him. Someday, the runes will speak.”

  Kiara smiled tiredly. “Or maybe he’ll make his own destiny.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  Later that night, when Tris was assured that both Kiara and the baby were sleeping soundly, he sat down at the large war room table with Fallon and Beyral. Both of the Sisterhood mages looked as exhausted as he felt after the long, grueling candlemarks they had all spent making certain that the new prince and the queen survived the birth. Two others joined them: Mikhail, Tris’s vayash moru seneschal, and General Ban Soterius, one of Tris’s closest friends.

  “Is there anyone at the Citadel of the Sisterhood who might be able to figure out what’s happened to Cwynn?” Tris asked. He cradled a hot cup of kerif in his hands, hoping the inky black drink might help him stay awake.

  Fallon shook her head. “No one I would trust with the prince’s life.” She met Tris’s eyes. “Sister Landis still hasn’t forgiven the mages who went rogue to help you fight Curane’s traitors, or those of us who used our magic to help you win back the throne. She wants the Sisterhood to focus on magic for its own sake, not on kings and wars. I understand why she thinks that way. Foor Arontala showed just how much damage a mage can do in support of a bloodthirsty king. And you saw for yourself the carnage Lord Curane’s blood mages created—along with this damned plague.” She sighed. “Landis has managed to reduce a complicated question to a simple yes or no. From her perspective, since mages can do damage when they become involved in the outside world, then they cannot be allowed to interfere at all.”

  “Which means that the non-Sisterhood mages like Arontala can do what they please unopposed, while the strongest and best-trained mages spend their days chronicling elaborate spells to boil water,” Beyral muttered.

  “Surely at some time in the history of the Sisterhood, a pregnant mage was exposed to wormroot,” Tris persisted.

  Fallon grimaced. “I’ve already asked Landis for access to her Citadel’s healing histories, and she’s refused. It will take some time to acquire any books from the Library at Westmarch, but I’ve sent a messenger with a request.”

  “Can Royster use the resources at Westmarch to help us? Isn’t the library run by the Sisterhood?”

  A smile touched Fallon’s lips. “Many things work differently in the north. Yes, Royster’s still in charge at Westmarch. But the Keepers of the Library at Westmarch have never listened to the leader of the Sisterhood. They share their secrets as they please. Landis knows that she can’t stop Royster from helping us, no matter
how she fumes and argues. But it will take weeks for the messenger to arrive, and more time before he returns.”

  Tris leaned back in his chair. He was nearly a head taller than many men, and lean. The hard-fought war for the throne had put muscle on his rangy frame and brought a weariness to his features that seemed incongruous to his twenty-two summers. White-blond hair, shoulder length, fell in disarray around his face, and stray wisps fell into his green eyes. “Margolan needs a reason to hope for something better,” he said quietly, setting his empty cup aside. “Sweet Chenne! Look what the kingdom’s suffered in the last two years.”

  He glanced up at the portrait of his father, King Bricen, that hung over the mantel. “It took Jared less than a full year to empty the treasury, beggar the kingdom, and leave the army in shambles. The farmers still haven’t all returned to their lands, and the plague’s killed off so many people, I don’t know how they’ll get the crops in. It’s going to be another hungry winter.”

  “It’s not just Margolan at stake,” Soterius said quietly. “Isencroft has a civil war on its hands. Donelan won the first round against the Divisionists, but any weakness in your heir is likely to make the opposition bold.”

  Soterius shook his head. “Think about it. Every time someone’s tried to fix one problem, they created a new one. By the Whore! Carroway couldn’t concoct a tale as wild as the truth. The whole betrothal contract between Isencroft and Margolan was supposed to stop a war with Eastmark a generation ago. Instead, it made the whole mess with Jared even worse. Now that you and Kiara are married, Donelan’s got a civil war on his hands because the Divisionists think it’s all a Margolan plot to take over Isencroft. And here we sit, with a brand-new heir to two thrones who might not be able to rule.” He ran a hand across his forehead as if his temples ached. “Goddess true! I’ve lived through it, but when I put it into words, it sounds like something out of the ballads!”

  Tris grimaced. “Thanks to Carroway, it is something out of the ballads, or did you forget he wrote us into his songs and stories?”